Starry Eyes
by SpaxTheTurtleClogger
Summary: Famous Death Racer Marik Ishtar falls for thief and bad-boy Bakura. What sort of problem evolve when Bakura's existence in Marik's life causes all sorts of Hell to break loose? As if murdering innocent racers and hiding his feelings weren't enough, Marik's got Bakura's problems, plus avenging his troubled childhood on the champion: Atem!
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**  
_I knew it was going to be a special day when I woke up to see the blue jays perched so sweetly on my window sill. I took it as a good omen for myself, the popular car racer Marik Ishtar. I never really had a premonition that day, a warning of some sort about how terribly a certain man would turn my life into Hell. It wasn't planned, I'm pretty positive about that. But maybe Ra had thought that it was time to let me remember what chaos really felt like down here. Down here, in the rotten underbelly of the world. I don't think I'd ever been so happy to be mugged, to be beaten, to be thrown down, only to be stomped and then leaned against, day after day.  
You were so terribly worth it, my love. You so very much were. And if there was one thing I could change, I'd have to say it would be the one time you spit in my mouth. I still think it's the nastiest fucking thing you've ever done to me. But either way, you were worth it. You still are.__  
You're worth my entire life, my entire future, my past, all of it, tenfold._


	2. Chapter 1

Today was going to be a good day. No matter how Marik looked at it, today had to be a good day. He had this feeling in his gut that simply screamed "It's going to be a good ass day today!" He was sure it was going to be. The fact he had a race today didn't deter this strange notion he had that it was going to be great today- in fact, it simply drove him into throws of ecstasy whenever he entered that candy apple red car of his. His life now revolved around cars, motorcycles, and speed. Everything he had ever dreamed of doing as a child and more. A shudder smacked through his body, the idea of his memories seeping into the darkened half of his brain too chilled for Marik's tastes. In one blink, the memories faded from bone chilling to high-speed, full of luxurious leather seats and black and chrome clad dashboards.  
Nothing was going to ruin this day.  
Joey Wheeler wasn't going to win this race.  
Marik Ishtar was going to come out on top every time he woke up, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. (Aside from his manager, but that's beside the point.) As his decision was made, he jumped out of the shower and rubbed his arms down with the white, fluff towels that he always got. They were so fluffy and soft, he often compared it to being swallowed in the clouds, the air drying his caramel Egyptian skin to the perfect degree of silkiness, the cotton gentle as a mother's touch on the sensitive scar that plagued his flesh and bones and psyche. He flipped his long, blonde locks back, the water splashing droplets against the fogged glass of the full length mirror only a foot away from his body. The room was cooling considerably, the humid air being replaced by cool air conditioning from the three vents in the area. Once he could see himself in the mirror, a small smile crept onto his pink lips. His eyes still bore the eyeliner from the night before perfectly, drawn on in the traditional Egyptian way that his brother and sister did their own in. No one dared to laugh or call him weird things because of it… He could rip them apart in seconds if he so pleased. Today was a racing day, so he had to get dressed hurriedly. He slipped on the full leather body suit that covered the plain white wife beater and blue jeans, and then slapped on the black driving boots. On his way out, he heard the televisions in the lobby talking about the upcoming race, the excitement, and how it was going to be a race for years to come. Marik only gave a small chuckle, because it was going to be one for years to come. Joey Wheeler had a reputation with having trigger-happy fingers, and Marik had a reputation for being a little rough.  
The stadium was crowded, and the fans were roaring their declaration of love and admiration to the ears of any who would listen. The amount of young girls that fawned over his astonishing young looks and feminine appeal, his form-fitting clothing and his majestic lavender eyes was out of his control at this point in his career. All it did was put more money in his Swiss bank account. As he made his way to his racer, he heard the screams and cries of all the women who wanted to gain his attention. Sadly, not for them to know, there was no way on this Earth they would ever be able to attract his attention. He knew for a fact that, as sad is it would have been for him if anyone ever found out, that he was more interested into the bulging biceps, perfect and rippling pectorals, wondrously toned muscles of a man: A man who could take him in a fight, who could intrigue him with intellectual conversation, and who wasn't afraid of getting down and dirty. If he couldn't work on a car with Marik, then he wasn't good enough for Marik. As the crowd cheered his name and screamed and begged the Gods for his victory, he saw the familiar green streak of Joey Wheeler's newest play toy, which he called the "Brooklyn Badger" or something as equally lame as his constant yelling of "Brooklyn rage!" Marik gave a quick flick of the wrist as a wave before entering his own weapon of mass destruction: He called it Winged Dragon of Ra. And boy, was Ra beautiful with the gentle sun beams glinting off the golden paint job he gave him recently. The new rims were complimented greatly with the rise and fall of the sleek body and the sheen of the weapons under the hood and on the sides were dulled. They were going to do a pretty simple course it looked like, on the edge of town near the ocean. Water was off limits, and you'd be disqualified if you even looked like you were trying to shove another racer into the stuff. The only way you could die was if it was in the arena. As they sat at the starting light, engines revving, Marik heard Joey chime in on the headset.  
"Hey pretty boy! Ready t' get your ass kicked?" He laughed in a heavily accented voice, making Marik narrow his eyes and scrunch his nose in displeasure.  
"Be a good doggy and keep the trash talk out of it, Wheeler."  
Joey's cocky grin dulled in comparison to the triumphant look in Marik's eyes. He knew how to handle Joey. Seto Kaiba had proven how efficient a petty insult like that put him in line. As Marik thought back on the races he'd observed, the light turned green without his attention fully thrown onto the race. Joey sped off the second the flag was down, leaving a half-dreaming Marik in the background noise.  
But that was okay. It just made him an easier target.  
Marik shoved his foot onto the gas, his entire body lurching back as the sudden speed made his still form smash itself against the leather seats. He watched triumphantly as Joey sped up the race way, not daring to slow down enough to safely round the corners. He must have really feared Marik winning, because in some spots he was forgetting to shift into the important gears. The moment he was in perfect range, Marik turned on his headset. Without warning, he opened fire, bullets burying themselves into the metal of Wheeler's Brooklyn Badger. The entire thing screamed in agony, and Marik heard a curse under Joey's breath as a bullet shot the windshield in the vehicle. Joey's car was slowing down.  
Marik lashed out the blades on the sides of the vehicle. They penetrated the side of the Badger, tearing away at it as if it were buried in the infant flesh of a newborn child, unable to protect itself from the pain it was going to endure. A loud laugh ripped through the headphones, sending chills spiraling up and down Joey's spin, his pale skin covered in goose bumps. _What the fuck is up with this guy?_ He felt a hitch in the way his vehicle moved, almost as if it were going against some opposing force.  
_It looks like Marik Ishtar's giving wheeler a run for his money!  
A run for his money?! If Wheeler doesn't get out of that he's done for! His car's a mess!  
I don't think it's his car he should be worried about now._  
He couldn't figure out all of what was going on- The back seat prohibited further vision, and there was no car behind him. All he could manage to envision was Marik's golden monster next to him, tearing into the inner workings of his little Badger, tearing apart the insides slow-  
His scream was deafened by that maniac laughter. That laughter that rang in his ears, that made him want to scream as loud as he could. His entire body was racking in pain and agony, he had to stop the car.  
_Oh fucking Christ what the fuck did I do?_ He cried mentally, another shock of pain racing into his being. He watched Marik go ahead, before crawling half way out of the vehicle. He stumbled out the door, falling on his side as he grabbed and cradled his leg, lying on the sidelines in agonizing pain. There was blood. It was everywhere. It was all he could see!  
"Wheeler."  
"Hah… What…?"  
"Look behind you."  
Joey lifted his head, before his eyes widened.  
There was that laughter again, before he couldn't hear anything but the gun shots ringing, before they smashed apart his skull.  
_Joey Wheeler is out! Wheeler is out!  
Marik has won a race yet again folks! Absolutely brutal!_  
The crowd cheered, roaring their pride and excitement as he stood on the hood of Ra, blowing kisses and giving bows to those who begged for more of him. His manager, Odion, walked over to him and helped him down, before giving a congratulatory pat on the back.  
"You ended this one quick, Marik."  
"Well, Odion, he was just begging for it, wasn't he?" A low chuckle ran through Marik's being, and Odion shuddered. He was sure he knew why Marik hadn't taken off his helmet. At least his darker side understood what could happen to them all if he revealed himself in public.

~

It was a nice day out. The clouds were hardly overhead and the sky was an alluring shade of azure. The wind came in gentle huffs, caressing the midriff Marik so kindly and daringly exposed from his short lavender zip up hoody. The tight leather pants weren't the least fashionable choice, either. It was probably all the gold he wore. But that was part of his life. It was his heritage, it was what his people and his blood did. He hid nothing of his Egyptian heritage: he had too much pride in his bloodline. Yes, everyone noticed who he was. Yes, a few even took it upon themselves to ask for pictures and autographs. Yes, he very kindly obliged. In the arena he was monster, but here? This was his domain. Plus, he needed a new pack of socks. Either that or a new pair of racing boots, whichever found its way into his eye sight first. As he walked, he noted that all the little stores he passes had nothing of interest for him. Most were here for tourists rather than the actual residents. A pity that he had so much to spend, yet so little to actually spend it on. He wasn't a mindless spender like many of the other people that had come into contact with wealth and fame. As he walked, the sky turned from alluring azure to tempting Prussian blue, to a mysterious violet blue. The stars overhead twinkled with glee and jittery girlish delight, the colors fading in and out as they glimmered, battled with the city lights for dominance over the skyline. He hummed some low tune, eerily soft and faint for the words that it actually said within the song. It hardly fazed him that there were barely anyone on the streets due to the time, and that he was in the bad part of the neighborhood. Normally he'd avoid this place, but his earlier thoughts about how good a day it was going to be refused to let him turn around now. That is, of course, until a hand reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him into the darkness of the closest alleyway. Another went to his mouth, which he fought against until he could turn to the braving figure behind him. Almost as soon as he turned his head, one of those strong hands turned into a fist that had collided with his stomach, and then smashed itself into his jaw. He refused to hunch over, since that would put him in kicking range for his face. Marik tried his hardest not to show weakness- he honestly did, he tried biting his lip, even- but it was in vain. He slunk to his knees, before feeling the hands that had previously been abusing his body take the earrings from his ears and the gold from his wrists. The being shoved its foot to Marik's back, pressing Marik further into the dirt than he'd ever wanted to be again. He reached his hand out, grabbing the being's wrist and pulling it close.  
"D-don't… W-wait, don't just leave me here." He stuttered, trying to catch his breath as he searched the darkness for the person's face. There just wasn't enough light from where he stood.  
"Or what, you're gonna scream? Ha!" The voice was rough and cruel, almost like Marik's was in the arena. It had some sort of odd accent with it, too, but not obnoxious like Wheeler's. It was something better, something much more sensual.  
"I just wanna know who the frig you are, kid. If you needed some money you could've asked. I've got more than enough." Marik looked as if he's just been shot. Why the frig would I tell him that?  
"…You're not going to call the police?"  
"Nah, not worth it. I get enough attention as it is."  
"Really? Why is that? Aside from being too pretty for your own good."  
Marik offered him his best glare, which most likely wasn't too impressive since all it gained him was the boy's laughter.  
"I'm a Death Racer. I actually had a match today and was out looking for new boots."  
The boy's laughter ended, and he came closer to Marik's face.  
Oh, what beautifully red, dull eyes were staring, boring themselves into Marik's entire being. Those crimson orbs held more life in them than Marik's entire memory, and they were so dark and corrupted it was like Hell had found a window. He had untamed unkempt silvery locks and pale skin. He was simply beautiful in a way Marik couldn't describe.  
"I-I'm Marik Ishtar." He stammered, holding his hand out. Suddenly he knew that, no matter what this boy had in store from him, there was no way he would ever be able to bring himself to bring him harm. Something inside him ripped at Marik for not having met him sooner.  
"… Bakura."  
"You're a thief, right?"  
"Yeah."  
"Where do you sleep?"  
"Wherever I can hide."  
"Come stay with me, then."  
And when Bakura gave him that look, one of confusion and almost hostility before accepting Mark's offer, Marik knew that today had certainly been a good day.


	3. Chapter 2

The night passed so quickly that it felt as if morning had come too early. The gentle rays of light that snuck into Marik's window to dance across his bed and walls woke him from his dreams of lollipops and handsome robbers, come to mug him in the night with kisses and caresses. The blonde eyelashes that lay ever so gently matted together on his cheeks fluttered open, the burst of lilac lighting up the caramel flesh of his visage. He sat up in his bed, covered in the white silk blankets of his bedroom. He looked at the large clock that was ticking away on the other side of the room and groaned. It was only nine in the morning. He flung his legs over the side of the bed, slipping his tender toes inside the Egyptian cotton and fleece slippers given to him by Odion last year for Christmas. He stood from his bed and left the room, yawning as he rubbed down some of the stray locks of blonde.  
_I'm feeling for some eggs today. And bacon! Oh, and toast would be nice, too. I wonder if there's any OJ left?_  
As he wondered about breakfast, a sound coming from the guest bedroom caught him off guard. He changed his destination from the kitchen to the guest room and creaked open the door. As he peered inside, sudden realization flashed through his brain: he had someone who beat and mugged him sleeping in his room because, somehow, he had managed to end up wanting to see that person more.  
_Great, Marik, just great. You're pretty pathetic._  
He did note that inside that room, Bakura looked almost as if he belonged to the high society life, like he was the bad boy in a group of old women. His hair was even messier than usual, so that just proved he at least brushed his hair. But the way the sun light shone against his alabaster skin in those black fleece pajama bottoms was absolutely mesmerizing. Even though he didn't seem too terribly muscular, the lean body he sported was dedicated to being absolutely flawless. It had no scars from where Marik's eyes could trail, and only completely did it tear him apart that he couldn't take in the entire being. It was such a tantalizing image, almost as if time were going to slow just so Marik could stare, and daydream and admire and fantasize-  
_Absolutely not. Make breakfast before you sit here and stare for hours!_  
As he painfully tore his mind from the beautiful creature lying in front of his freshly drawn fangs of lust, he heard the grumbling of two stomachs combine into a dance that simply made sure Marik knew it was time for food.  
It's not like he didn't enjoy cooking (it actually happened to be his favorite pastime) but when he could feel Bakura's crimson eyes staring at his back, he could hardly concentrate on the food. His mind kept creeping back to the angelic scene in that bed, of Bakura's arm wrapped around the fluffy pillow as he grumbled about it being too light, the blankets strewn across the floor, probably from him having kicked them off in the middle of the night. And when he sauntered out and nearly tripped over the sofa, and when he threatened to go to the bathroom in the kitchen sink if Marik didn't hurry up and show him where the bathroom was, and especially when he walked out first thing that morning topless, with his glorious body on display for Marik's desperate eyes. Sometimes Marik thought he was just going to turn around, and Bakura would have left, with how silent his feet were. But the sudden bursts of complaints kept him sure of Bakura's presence and gave him peace of mind. He set the plates on the small, three person-seating table in his poor excuse for a modern dining room, and filled up the two glasses with freshly squeezed orange juice. With how small the table was, and how long Bakura and Marik's legs happened to be, it was absolute bliss for the little Death Racer. One simple shift in position and they were brushing knees, toes colliding, and thighs scraping against one another. It wasn't that Marik was some creepy pervert who enjoyed bringing older men to his apartment loft for dark pleasures; no, it was just that Marik understood and could remember the dark days of his own past. As they sat and ate the circumstances of Bakura's situation kept becoming more and more part of Marik's thoughts.  
"Say, Bakura?" He looked up from his plate, one of the four eggs he'd made himself devoured.  
"Yes, Marik?" Bakura asked. Bakura was digging into the small steak Marik had made him, juicy enough to cover his lips in red blood as he chewed on it without cutting it.  
"Do you really not have anywhere to live?"  
"Nope. Nowhere."  
"Will you live with me?"  
"What?" The look on his face was genuinely perplexed, the way he scowled yet gave a quizzical raise of his silvery brows making Marik's heart melt into steamy dripping pools of childish romance. He repeated his question with strange excitement, only hoping the item of his affections would agree. As if by some miracle, Bakura shrugged his shoulders.  
"If you cook. And don't bring a bunch of annoying little fangirls home."  
_Fangirls? Ha! If only you knew, babe._

Bakura did spend a lot of time walking around observing the house. Marik's secretive ways forced him to accompany the guest wherever he went snooping, especially inside Marik's precious bedroom. Inside, he looked inside the drawers, fingered about them as he pulled out the articles of clothing before making his way to the book shelf. All Marik did in his house was read and write, and it was no surprise with the six foot tall bookshelf, covered in books and binders of loose-leaf paper. Bakura pulled out a certain book, an old favorite of Marik's.  
"You actually read this?" "The Scarlett Letter? Yeah, it's a good book. Have you read it?"  
Bakura shook his head no as he slipped the item back into its original placement, binding facing the room. The next book he chose was certainly something that should have been hidden.  
"What the… You read this shit?" Of course Bakura had to pull out a very sensual Hetalia yaoi of Germany and Prussia.  
Of course he did. Of _fucking_ course. The look on his face wasn't disgusted, though. He looked thoroughly entertained as he flipped through the pages, observing the steamy scenes with Germany taking out the leather whip and grabbing his brother by his hair before shoving him face first onto the desk, then-  
"Marik!"  
Marik's head snapped to full attention, staring instantly in the direction of the rough British accent. Bakura had put the book down and moved on with his little tour of Marik's personal fortress, full of yaoi and PlayGirl magazines. He stood in front of the large, old looking painting of an Egyptian woman, whose long black hair feel like a cascading waterfall down her back. In front of it stood the alter carrying Marik's Sennen Rod, something handed down generation after generation to the first born son of the Ishtar house. It was of pure gold with the crest of the Egyptian eye carved into the sphere, the Egyptian wings of the dragon of Ra protruding. As Bakura's fingers caressed the smooth surface, Marik threw himself forward, pulling Bakura from the item.  
"You… You can't touch this it's very important!" He shouted, cradling the Sennen Rod to his chest as if it were a newborn child. It occurred to him then that he may have hurt or offended Bakura, who had not muttered a single remark in Marik's slightly hysterical breakdown. When he looked behind him, Bakura was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and one hip cocked to the side, staring at Marik patiently. If only Bakura had any idea the power that he suddenly held over Marik's being! As he stood so broodingly with lean muscles tightened across his chest and arms and stomach, porcelain skin gleaming in the afternoon sunlight and albino silver hair like a halo of snow covering him, the only thing to escape the light was his eyes, which were so dark and emotionally dulled, that they looked like blood diamonds, Marik's heart was in a frenzy that he was sure would end up killing him.  
"Hey, Malik, stop staring…"  
"It's Marik."  
"Whatever." He pushed himself from the wall he was leaning on and, with a confident smirk, walked out the bedroom door saying "It's glad to know I can make the popular Marik Ishtar drool over me."  
_You have no idea you sarcastic asshole._ Marik groaned in his mind, following the object of his sudden affection into the living room, where he watched Bakura stare at the television in frustration before looking at the large remote. He picked the toy up and pressed one of the buttons, and jumped when a female voice said monotonously "system activated: Front door locked." Marik laughed and nearly skipped over, leaning over his love's shoulders to press the power button with his tanned slender fingers, earning a mumble of thanks and a look of slight gratitude and a flush of embarrassment in return. Now, all Marik needed was to make Bakura fall in love with him. What kind of people did he like? Would Bakura tell him if he were gay? Marik shook his head, the blonde hair falling sensually over his lilac eyes. He decided he'd interrogate Bakura on it later.


End file.
